#goodqueenalys

“I should speak with your family then. If you would permit me, that is.” With a nod of approval, Jon reaches down to retrieve his bag, the thick, worn leather handle clutched so tightly in his fist his knuckles whiten. “And this Weirwood-”

“Aye, the Tree. We townsfolk always liked to think it was connected to God, but the truth is it’s prolly just as ungodly as the headless rider. Ghastly thing to look at in the winter, too. Nobody here has prayed for days.” Taking several steps toward the door to the entryway, Stark turns sharply on his heel to address the young man. “I do have to wonder how you plan on ridding us of this evil. We can’t have no more deaths around here.”

He doesn’t say it outright, but he needn’t have to. The skepticism in his voice is laid out plain; it’s laced into his words like poison, like a snake slithering down a rabbit hole ready to release its venom in self-defense. He doesn’t trust Jon—his abilities, rather—and wants it to be known that the people come before the stranger.

“Rest assured, Mister Stark, my sole mission here is to chase away any stranger who lurks in your woods and preys upon your women. As it always is, As long as nothing distracts me, I should be out of your hair in a matter of days. A couple dozen at best.” Jon could mention that he was invited to this town by this very same man who now seems to doubt him so. But he doesn’t. Instead, he lets the words sit on the tip of his tongue and hold on tight as he plasters the limpest of smiles on his face—ever so passive. “Now, your family.”

“Aye. Upstairs.”

Stark pushes the door open an inch, and suddenly there’s a flurry of russet hair breezing into the room. The girl is about twenty, eighteen years old at a push, and she has a basket full of what looks to be rags in her hands. “There you are.” She’s talking to Jon.

“Mister Snow, meet my eldest.” Stark waves a hand about, though the other remains behind his back. Jon can see his fist clench, unclench, repeat in the broken mirror against the wall. Perhaps the man is fatigued, tired of his daughter “Eldest daughter, that is. She’s second, elsewise.”

“Father, I’m sure our dear horseman-hunter here doesn’t care much for pleasantries. He doesn’t… look the type.” She argues, shooting a look up and down the young man in the room.